


And I'll Sing You Tomorrow

by FactorialRabbits



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Gen, post-angband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 01:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20612297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: The healers have done their work, Fingon has been sent to bed, and the other sons of Fëanor will not be here until morning. In the moments between, Fingolfin keeps watch over his nephew.





	And I'll Sing You Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> A very short little thing written in about ten minutes for someone on discord.

"Go see a healer, Fingon," Fingolfin attempted to keep the exhaustion from his voice as he spoke. "Then get yourself some sleep."

"But-"

"Have you washed since you came home?" He approached a little closer, to where his son say beside his nephew's sickbed. "I will stay with him, and the messenger will not reach his brothers until morning; go rest. Things will seem less terrible once you have slept."

It was a mark of Fingon's exhaustion that he did not object again, rather dejectedly made his way outside. 

Fingolfin watched his son for a moment, waiting for the distinctive sound of his other children demanding their brother's attention, before turning to the form on the bed.

Maedhros had yet to awaken from his ordeal, but what of that was his body attempting to heal, and what was the drugs provided by the healers, he was not certain. The bandages hid his wounds, and Fingolfin could only be thankful that they hid the evidence of starvation from all but his cheeks too. Hunger was a familiar companion of all who had crossed the ice, and sometimes even he had wished suffering on his kin who had abandoned them, but like this…? Not like this. 

Somehow, despite everything, Maedhros began to shift in his sleep. Instinctively, Fingolfin reached to comfort him, before remembering the healer's words: any touch will be as fire to him. Then the natives of Beleriand had looked between each other, before correcting those of Aman to 'as torture'.

There were many things Fingolfin was willing to do, but torture his kin? No, that was not one of them. 

So he kept quiet vigil, sat at Maedhros' bedside. His nephew seemed to calm as rain patterned to the ground outside, then a moment later thunder and the twisting began again. 

Fingolfin could not stand to sit and watch him suffer, but… no touching, they said, and he did not respond to being spoken to, but maybe…

From the far reaches of his mind, Fingolfin clawed old memories. Of the songs his father once sang him to sleep with, when he was a restless child. In a peaceful, innocent time. 

Finding one, he quietly began to hum it, before the hum morphed into a song. If he were lucky, it would be a song Feanor had sung for his children, too. Certainly, he had sung it for his own.

Almost as though he could hear it, Maedhros seemed to relax a little. Not fully, not completely, but a little. 

A little was still progress; Fingolfin quietly sang into the night, even long after his voice became hoarse and the dawn began to break. 

No comfort was enough, but any better than none. For himself, for Maedhros, for whomever was lurking just outside… it mattered not entirely, though Fingolfin hoped for the second most of all.

Hoped that Maedhros dreamt of the green hills and quiet meadows of which he sang.


End file.
